


The Peace of Two Minds

by orphan_account



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: AU, Chuck is alive, M/M, Male Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-26
Updated: 2013-08-04
Packaged: 2017-12-21 10:22:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/899192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The death of Hercules Hansen shatters his son, Chuck, consequently causing his de-commissioning. Nearly eight months later, on his 22nd birthday, Newton Geiszler and Hermann Gottlieb devise the Sub-Etheric Mind Compatibility Algorithm, which quantifies each shatterdome workers’ minds real time, into mathematical, pairable fields. The first Pairability List is released near his breaking point, and he finds, to his sheer disbelief, his mind entirely compatible with Raleigh Becket’s.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tell Not A Soul

**Author's Note:**

> This is an AU, since Chuck is alive and Herc is dead. Also, I'll be throwing a bunch of made-up jargon around, so don't take my word for it. I haven't read the novelization yet so I'm not well-versed in Jaeger-Kaiju knowledge.

001:

In the dead of night, in quarter B047, near the advent of his 22nd year of existence, Chuck Hansen lost his battle with plaguing nightmares, and succumbed.

He was inside Striker Eureka, the monitors blinding him momentarily as they flashed red for danger. The air shook with a Kaiju’s roar, and everything shut down, the lights, the system, everything. It was suddenly dark and silent. The neural bond snapped, and Chuck felt a part of himself dissipate. The category IV stared directly at their Jaeger’s head component, waiting, glaring at them with its bioluminescent compound eyes.

Unable to pilot their fighting machine, he turned to his father, Hercules, trying valiantly to regain control, but to no avail — the wave that emanated from the beast fried their circuits.

"What was that?" Chuck voiced out loud, still under the notion that his helmophone carried his voice back to LOCCENT.

"A high probability of it being an EMP, son. The damn Kaiju’s targetted our system’s frequencies," his dad answered with growing distress. Chuck cursed audibly, momentarily at a loss of what to do. Out there, screeching echoes came from downtown Hong Kong, being ravaged to pieces by the other category IV. What were they to do? They were part of an elite team, the rangers entrusted by the Pan-Pacific defense Corps to battle these monstrosities, and Chuck was a fucking world-record holder with eleven Kaiju kills, and they were sitting ducks.

"Fuck this," Chuck spat. As his dad fiddled with the controls some more, Chuck unhinged his safety locks and removed his helmet and the mind meld component, stepping out of the control platform. Seeing this, Herc called to him out loud.

"Charles! don’t you dare do anything rash! Keep to the mechanism for safety!"

But too late — the Kaiju struck, lashing out with its tail and whipping Striker’s side, causing the Jaeger to lurch violently. Chuck, without any safety gear keeping him in place, shot towards the side ring, hitting the far wall. he cried out as he heard and felt bone breaking.

"Chuck! Are you alright?" his father yelled after him, disengaging his safety locks. Chuck groaned, his arm throbbing wildly in pain. It broke most of the impact, and in the process left itself severely injured. Chuck felt adrenaline course through him, dulling the worst of the vice-like pain. He figured the bone didn’t tear skin, on account of he wasn’t feeling any wetness around the area, and he wasn’t feeling woozy from blood loss. But it was definitely damaged, and useless.

"Fine," he growled, “fucking peachy." His father’s look was half-concerned, half-reprimanding, but Chuck brushed it off gruffly and tried to stand. He tried to make his arm move, but pain lanced through it instead.

"What now?" Chuck asked, wanting to punch a fucking hole through the Jaeger and just bloody clobber the thing to submission. He glared at the Kaiju defiantly.

Then the images shifted, fading and coalescing into an entirely different scene, and he knew right away what they would turn into. Always.

In LOCCENT, his eyebrows knit together into an angry scowl. The images of the category V flashed on screen, wrestling with Striker Eureka. His injury had left him unable to pilot, leaving Stacker Pentecost to man Striker with his father Herc.

And it happened. his hearing dulled, and time seemed to drift slower.

He could hear himself arguing as Slacker and Herc made their decision together — the little whine of disbelief he uttered as they agreed to detonate Striker’s thermonuclear reactor, so as to let Becket and Mori carry through with the mission.

No, he said. No!

He could barely listen as he growled against the microphone, clutching at it in desperation.

His father stomping down on his protests. Chuck didn’t relent. his dad, his dad …

The words, the final words he said to him, a sudden, heart-wrenching goodbye, the stubborn tears that marred his cheeks, the anger, the unfairness — he was supposed to pilot, to die with his dad some way or another, protecting humanity, not this, not like this, losing his dad through a monitor, several kilometers down the sea, with barely a hint of contact …

He cursed, again, and again, bringing his hands down against the control board, Tendo restraining him, you would not, dad, dad, and he yelled, he growled …

He jolted awake, like he had been slammed against a very hard surface. He was tangled in sheets, sweat lining his naked torso, breathing harshly. He tried to calm down, wiped at the tears furiously. It was always like this, always. The guilt, the grief, the resignation, and the full cycle of it all as he doubled back to the start, a maelstrom of unending internal strife.

"Fuck … fucking damn it all," he grit out, gripping at his hair and forcing his eyes shut. No crying. Fucking damn, no crying.

Loud, frantic knocks resounded through the steel door of his quarters, breaking through his feverish breathing and wild thoughts. He tried to steady his breathing as he went for the door, but the chill in his heart and lungs and limbs were there, still. A brave face, just put one on.

He opened the latch, expecting some official jumping to a Kaiju briefing right away, but instead went face to face with Raleigh.

"Chuck," he breathed, eyes searching him.

"Becket," he said in surprise. Clad in the same pyjamas and torso exposed, Raleigh Becket leaned against his door frame with a resolutely worried expression. 

"I heard screaming. From across the hall," he explained, scratching at the back of his head.

Right, he thought, we live across from each other, now. Mako Ori, who used to live where he was currently residing, saw it fit to occupy his late adoptive father’s quarters, seeing as she has succeeded him in his position as Hong Kong shatterdome’s Marshall.

"Are you okay?" Raleigh asked, though his stark blue eyes shone with clear understanding.

Not from you, Becket. I don’t need your fucking sympathy. "It’s nothing," he said defensively. “I — uh — stubbed my toe."

Raleigh’s eyebrows knitted together. “It’s 3 o’clock in the morning."

Chuck tilted his chin up, trying his best to look defiant. Not fragile, not weak. A multitude of curses wanted to escape from his mouth, but for some reason he couldn’t let them go. “I like to start my morning routine early. Now if you don’t mind, Becket."

He closed the door, locking it shut, and for all the fucking Kaijus’ lives he had ended, he was unable to resist looking through the peephole.

Outside, Raleigh Becket leaned against Chuck Hansen’s doorframe, eyes downcast.


	2. Compatible

002:

Mako

Entry 210, date: August 14, 2025

A month into the new Jaeger Program, Perlustrazione, and we have yet to find the new portal. The 21 nations of the Pacific Rim had redoubled their efforts into finding the new source of Kaiju, and thus far have come to zero conclusions. The Kaiju elude us, and I am under no semblance of false security.

The US independence day attack had surprised everyone, almost eight months after the last known sighting of the Kaiju. The category III acted uncannily, and had been easily subdued -- however its actions had led to more consequences than we were ready for. Its decomposing body released tons of radioactive, poisonous sludge, severely crippling a large water treatment facility nearby. The US government has had their hands full with dealing with the casualties, counting the loss of infrastructure and economy, and healing the damaged ecology.

Ranger Becket and I have ensured that the only known portal in the Pacific Ocean is still sealed, and we are left to wonder how the Kaiju have reemerged …

A knock came from the door, and Mako Mori, Marshal of the new Hong Kong Shatterdome, turned off her recording unit and tried to school her face into a commanding officer’s face. She rose from her seat, straightened her garb, and went to the door.

"Marshal Mori," greeted Newton Geiszler, holding a clipboard in one hand, while the other fidgeted nervously around the pocket of his trousers. He looked dreadful — the stark tattoos and unshaven chin notwithstanding. Mako’s eyes softened. Two of his eyes were bloodshot instead of just one, suggesting that this time, Newt wasn’t having enough sleep. Mako severely reprimanded him once for attempting to drift into a Kaiju’s second brain again, without Hermann Gottlieb’s assistance, and Newt had been careful since, for fear of being at the receiving end of Mako’s staff.

"Good morning, Dr. Geiszler," she greeted back, closing her chambers behind her.

"Please, call me Newt. We’ve known each other for years," he chirped, though he knew that the Marshal had unflinching sorts of principles that centered around respect towards everyone. They started walking along the wing, off towards the lab where most of the calculations and research are being done.

"You seem less jumpy today, Newton. You’re speaking twenty or so words less. Is it because of the new drift project? I’ll take a guess and say you worked on SEMCA all night, with no consideration at all for your health and well-being." She was always like this, mothering everyone as much as ordering everyone around, and Newt and Raleigh never let her hear the end of it. Yet it was second nature to her, the way it was second nature to the late Marshal Pentecost to be fatherly, and unerringly strict with everyone under his command.

"You’re right! But I’m quite peachy, Marshal. I haven’t felt this alive in weeks! And it’s not because of the energy drinks," he replied with a grin. “Gottlieb’s mathematical models are simply astounding! And our nano-engineers — the technology is adrift in this shatterdome even as we speak, thus the sub-etheric part of the system, yet to anyone unfamiliar with the system it seems as if nothing has changed in the air. But everything has! Everyone’s being mapped out. Every memory, experience, knowledge, beliefs, dreams, all translated into digital format, and the compatibility charts are already being drawn. This noon we will be able to broadcast the results, and soon we will know for sure, who among our trainees are most fit for Jaeger piloting."

There’s the hundred-word per minute man she’d known for a long time. She smiled faintly, though she had undisguised reservations regarding the project. Granted, the inclusion of mere workers, engineers and employees was for overall coverage of possible Jaeger pilots, and everyone still in the shatterdome had signed the waivers anyway, plus the scientists have approved all technologies involved before giving them a go … Mako’s worry more likely than not stemmed from her fear of the uncertain. She had no inkling of how the mapping is being translated, and did not know if any of this was a quiet breach of everyone’s privacy or not.

They talked about this in length, Mako voicing out her concerns and Newt alleviating them.

"That’s the beauty of it, Mako! The models think of a binary representation for a memory, say a specific childhood trauma or a nuisance, and encodes it into the individual’s memory catalogue. It is from there that the system matches the representations with other people’s memory catalogues. You see, there isn’t any breach on privacy since us scientists involved in the project don’t know what the models translate the memories to. It would take powerful computers to decode them, and even then the subjective translation would differ for each result. We don’t know how each mind matches up with others, SEMCA just tells us that those minds do."

Mako supposed it made sense. That way, if two individuals did match, only then could they find out the similarities between themselves by neural handshake.

They walked into the lab and got an earful from Hermann about punctuality and Riemann sums all in one sentence, and Mako new she was in for a hectic morning.

Chuck

Chuck wanted to punch the doctor. He wanted to punch the wall. There wasn’t any distinct emotion at the moment that couldn’t be translated into a punch at something, really, except maybe his hunger, because his medical examination required that he skip dinner past night prior.

Each time he went into the infirmary to be examined for physical fitness and mental stability, it always felt like he was being probed by extra-terrestrials. No matter the test, however, he always came out generally healthy, and generally sane, and overall fit to be a trainee once again.

Though, despite his best efforts, he always failed one last clearance — the LOCCENT’s approval, a testament of their unwavering distrust stemming half a year past, when he had nearly choked Tendo Choi, the Chief Technology Officer, to death. He had been forgiven by the man, but there was no looking past Chuck’s volatile nature after the debacle, and that had left Chuck with a very uncertain future within the Corps.

It had taken half a year of forced rehabilitation by psychotherapy, and Chuck had promised everyone that he was fine, and it was showing in the tests, but there had been one damage to his psyche that the drift connection between him and his father had caused, and that was the gaping hole in his soul after his father’s demise, translating into dreams. Chuck kept that a closely guarded secret, and he was almost successful.

For seven months no one knew. No one knew, except one person. He glared at the back of Becket’s head in line at the mess hall, willing it to explode. The Golden Ranger, they called him, because of his dirty flaxen hair and the greenish gold tint his Jaeger, the Mark 6 version of Gypsy Danger, had taken. Chuck watched Becket chat amicably with some of the older technicians, and quietly, he simmered. He could do that, he supposed, talk to people and win them over, but he’d rather not make the effort for the bumbling idiots. No one was worth his time. No one.

He sat only with Max. the bulldog looked up at him loyally, and Chuck scratched the underside of his neck. No one wanted to sit with the crazed Hansen. He ate quietly, gulped everything down, and focused on the task at hand. Nevermind the stares, or the silence that the passerbys dropped down to. Chances were, they weren’t worth his shit anyway.

From the corner of his eye, he could feel Becket’s eyes boring into him from across the hall, but he steadfastly ignored it.

The mess hall was rowdier than usual, noisier. Chuck didn’t know what SEMCA was, and didn’t care to hear what the Pairability List contained. He was getting tired of shatterdome life, and maybe, he ruminated, maybe it wasn’t for him anymore. His father had enlisted him when he was barely ten, and he knew no other life than the cockpit of a titanic robot. True, there was something out there somewhere — the Academy made sure he was educated, but he didn’t think he could be passionate about anything else anymore.

An assembly was to be held after lunch, and Chuck wondered if anyone would notice him gone from the roster. Becket most like. He’d been a constant thorn on his side ever since Striker Eureka’s kamikaze, and he was at wit’s end trying to deal with him.

"Please proceed to maintenance bay Z05 for the SEMCA briefing and the real-time presentation of the Pairability List," the announcement went, and Chuck scowled, throwing his half-finished tray in the wash area along with the others. He glanced at the other wing, the corridor that led to the trainee, private quarters and thought of hiding in his rooms. Sighing, he followed the crowd. He led Max to the bays, silently brooding the whole time, where, as luck would have it, Raleigh sidled next to him casually.

"You know, Max is kind of getting fat," Raleigh said with a sidelong smile, bending down to give the dog a pat. The bulldog panted at him and leaned into his hand. Chuck’s expression darkened. He quickened his pace. Almost challenging, Raleigh kept up with him.

"You know, Max can kill a man, if he wanted," Chuck grit out. What he really meant to say was, fuck you, Rah-Lee.

"Well, then. I’m glad he seems to like me," Raleigh told him, and Chuck had to fight his urge to connect with Raleigh fist to jaw.

"Don’t get cheeky with me, Becket. You’ve heard them talk. I’ll kick your ass four ways back to year zero," he warned darkly.

Raleigh smirked at him. “Let’s spar, then. At Kwoon." Chuck scoffed.

"Fuck you," he snapped. Raleigh’s eyebrows knitted, but Mako’s voice boomed over the speakers surrounding the deck. Everyone’s eyes turned to the projection screen.

^*(#&

"Rangers, trainees, engineers, scientists of the Pan-Pacific Defense Corps," Marshal Mori addressed. “Tough times are ahead of us. The Kaiju have reemerged. The Pacific Rim is threatened once again. The July attack left us wounded, scattered. We had to make do with a decommissioned Mark 1 Jaeger Romeo Blue to defeat the category III, and we were fortunate that its nature was lethargic, and Romeo’s long distance guns proved enough. Like this base, Los Angeles Shatterdome has once again been restarted."

"We are at the frontiers of safety and security. Another Kaiju portal would prove detrimental to human survival."

Mako let the silence fall over the crew, the gravity of the situation.

"In the hopes of uncovering more efficient Jaeger pilots, research scientists at K-Science Laboratories have devised SEMCA, the Sub-Etheric Mind Compatibility Algorithm, a real-time system that calculates human mind compatibility. The top five groups that will appear in the Pairability List will be made into trainees, and elevated into priority status. By theory, Jaeger capabilities are proportional to pilot synergy, and we aim to make the best rangers this side of the Rim has ever commissioned."

Cheers erupted, and the crew, hundreds of them, lauded the new Marshal. Chuck had to hand it to Mori — she had the charisma of her father. She handled herself well and showed grace and authority at the same time.

"Without further ado, Doctor Newton Geiszler will show us the charts," she said. Newt, situated near the projection computer, nodded at her, and activated the relay mechanism. Hermann was in the console, inputting last minute commands.

The screen fired off, projecting a three-dimensional hologram over the glass suspension field. Everyone gazed as lights flashed and equations quickly zoomed. Spheres, hundreds of them, blossomed into existence like soap bubbles, depicting hundreds of minds, and Chuck, from the deck, watched in awe, along with the rest of them.

When the calculations came to a finish, twenty or so spheres were very distinctly larger than the rest, and, to the side of the holographic display, a list of candidates appeared. Chuck was beguiled when he saw his name next to a crimson sphere, looking like the sun among dozens of Mercurys. An emerald sphere of nearly the same size almost overlapped his own, gleaming with a certain golden aura.

Beside him, Raleigh Becket made a choked sound. “You have got to be kidding me …"

Chuck followed his eyesight to the List, and promptly went white.

Pairability List, update 14, minute by minute mapping

1\. Raleigh Becket - Chuck Hansen; 137%

2\. Mako Mori - Raleigh Becket; 89%

3\. Diana Forsyth - Mako Mori; 87%

4\. Newton Greiszler - Santiago Santos 83%

5\. Alexia Kaidonovsky - Guillaume Budé 80%

6\. Donovan Brown - Feng Da Xiong 75%

The list went on, but Chuck stood frozen at the stats. He couldn’t look anywhere else, especially not at Raleigh, who was just as flabbergasted as he was.

By update 15, their Compatibility Quotient changed to 140%.

Chuck cursed audibly.


	3. Incompatible

003:

“No, seriously. This is a joke,” Becket chuckled disbelievingly, glancing at Chuck. The other man wore a dark expression. People were staring at them, but Chuck’s eyes lay transfixed on the C.Q. -- 140% after minute fifteen, changing back to 137% the next minute.

Sensing that the List wouldn’t be changing drastically anytime soon, Mako soon dismissed the workers, ordering everyone within the top five to stay behind. Chuck’s fists curled. He was aiming his glare at Newton, who for some reason looked to be in the process of shitting himself. Becket was still shaking his head at the ridiculousness of it all, and the others, fuck if they mattered, wore a cocktail of expressions. Chuck was the first to speak, or more appropriately, grouse.

“What’s the meaning of this, Mori?” he muttered lowly, looking positively threatening as he squared his shoulders. Mako met his gaze with a steely façade. She turned to everyone and gave her address.

“I have been briefed on the SEMCA, and have found the test finds and the algorithm itself to be quite remarkably accurate, and frankly, ingenious. It was a collaborative effort between the team, and I highly commend them, though I’m quite surprised that one from the team actually qualified …” Her then amused gaze went to Newt, who was fidgeting, from nervousness or excitement, Chuck couldn't care to decipher.

“This List is not absolute, and SEMCA not fully tested,” she continued. “However, all of you will undergo extensive training and testing, to determine whether the SEMCA project indeed increases Jaeger piloting and efficiency. I, myself, am in the List, though as primary commanding officer during missions, I would most probably participate in Kaiju attacks inside LOCCENT, with Mr Choi as an advisor.”

She turned to a blonde female, a Ranger with long blonde hair and crystal blue eyes. “Miss Forsyth, is it? I will undergo training with you nonetheless, in the event that our partnership is needed. Neural psychologists and coaches in the team are suggesting highly specialized training regimens, which would most likely not cover our prior training as Rangers. Your thoughts?”

She made the trademark Jaeger Academy salute, her eyes shining. “I will do my best, Marshal Mori, and prove not to be a burden to the cause.”

Mako nodded her assent. Chuck was livid – he couldn’t believe this was happening!

Chuck’s voice dropped to a deadly whisper as his lips neared Mako’s ears. “If you’re suggesting that some … some equation -- saying that basket case Becket over there and I are fucking compatible -- is reliable, then you’re stuffed full of it. I’d rather drag my balls through broken glass than man a Jaeger with that … that tool.”

“You are still under oath, Ranger,” Mako said, fixing her with an unwavering gaze. “The very same oath your father took after the Academy.”

You sick bitch, he wanted to say, but that would lead to unforeseen consequences. He said instead, “LOCCENT has me tagged under ‘dangerous deliquent’, Mori. They will never allow this.”

“They will desist under my word, Hansen. Lord knows you’re too valuable a Ranger to just stash and let rust. I should have stepped in even before the SEMCA to overrule their disinclination. And our fathers would have been furious if you just lazed about.”

Chuck was at a loss for words. He did not need reminding of his father. Not once, but twice did Mori stress just how important being a Ranger was to his father. A prized graduate of the Jaeger Academy, good friends with the preceding Marshal …

Chuck lowered his gaze, clenched his fists defiantly and scowled, stepping away from Mako. He was not going to do this. He’d no sooner desert this place than work with Becket. That egotistic, irresponsible, dim-witted tosser. He glanced at the man, who had been quiet for the rest of Mori’s address, looking as if he was silently contemplating things. When Becket turned his head towards him and his eyebrows jumped in surprise, the Australian shot him a formidably venomous stare.

“Looks like the Marshal’s words are law,” Becket joked, trying to break the tension. “I guess we’re going to be working together. Ten bucks says we fuck it up on the first day.”

Chuck wanted to jam his foot through Becket’s pearly white teeth. That would show him fucking things up.

“You’re agreeing to this,” Chuck stated, smirking. “Just shows what a real dipshit you are, Becket.”

Becket’s expression dropped into a more fuming look, and Chuck for once was ready to anticipate the punch that would soon be thrown his direction, looking forward to it, really, when a sprightly girl stepped between them.

“You two are being immature,” she reprimanded, looking down on the both of them, despite being two heads shorter than both. “I can’t believe you two are 137 percent compatible. No — scratch that. Your C.Q.’s up to 140 again … I think that 40 percent’s all the hot gas filling your heads instead of your brains.”

“What did you say, tyke?—”

“This coming from an eighteen year old—“

“Feng,” a gruff, Englishman’s voice boomed over them. “Say your apologies. These two men obviously have a lot of issues to resolve between them before getting into any Mark 6 Jaeger.”

The Chinese youth flinched, looking properly scolded as she cast her eyes down. “Sorry, Don.”

“Say your apologies to them, not me.”

“Sorry …” she hesitated. “Sir Hansen, Sir Becket.” Chuck wanted to hit her over the head for her lack of respect.

“137 percent … I can’t believe it,” said another, a young man with a thick French accent. “Our two most seasoned Rangers … yes, I do believe that they have the mental capacity, but these two are like two very stubborn electrons. The system must be defected …”

Newt hopped in place as if he was electrocuted. “I beg to disagree, Mister—mister …?”

“Guillaume. Guillaume Budé, monsieur.”

At this, Newt considerably paled, and Chuck raised an eyebrow.

Newt stuttered. “Th-The SEMCA has been tried and tested by our mathematicians – it’s revolutionary! It’s flawless!”

“That maybe the case, Newton, but Chuck and Raleigh, by the looks of it, don’t seem to be the right poster boys for 137% compatibility … if you were to pitch this to the PPDC board …” a man next to him said, rubbing his stubbly chin in wonder. Chuck scowled at the blatant familiarity the man was trying to achieve with using his first name.

“And who the hell are you?” Chuck had to say.

“Tiago, Chuck,” Becket answered for him, quirking his eyebrow at Chuck like he should know this. “He outfitted us in every mission we had here in Hong Kong.”

He wasn't very good with remembering names, and he certainly didn't give much of a rat’s ass regarding the rest of the staff – he just noticed his superiors, his dad, Max, Mori, occasionally, the arse Becket, and the other elite Rangers, and that was it.

“I’m not about to consider shite a mere technician says about drift compatibility,” Chuck snapped, though he wanted to retract his words – he sounded as if he was all for partnering with Becket. This would not end well. Not at all. Becket and I will break half the shatterdome to pieces with our Jaeger before agreeing to anything.

And above anything else, if they were going to go through with this project, they would have to drift soon … And Chuck, he would never, in a million years, be willing to share any of his thoughts with anybody, without putting a bullet to their head soon after.

He stormed out. No, the idea was completely ridiculous. Raleigh … Becket wouldn’t understand. He’d laugh at his vulnerabilities, scoff at his downsides and fears … anybody would do just that, completely use every weakness he had to get a leg up on him, Chuck Hansen, the man who bragged about his accomplishments so much it was surprising he needed his father to pilot when he already had another head growing on his shoulder …

He needed a stiff drink, the shittiest liquor he could find, to drown out his overactive mind. Everything was happening so fast, it was almost as if his father’s death happened years in the past … he wasn’t supposed to be feeling that, wasn’t supposed to be forgetting the sensation of losing him, and the thought of drifting with someone else so early, it was putting a spear through him and his sanity.

It was childish, it was cowardly -- he wouldn’t admit it to anyone else. He wasn’t ready.


	4. Thoughts That Go Awry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Chuck under the influence, and Newt being Newt.

004:

Chuck

Chuck got clearance pretty easily, which was surprising for the young man since he was supposed to be ‘kept under proper containment’. He didn’t like how that made him sound like a wild animal, but at the same time he relished the now quite apparent fact that people were scared of him. All because he snapped and tried to squeeze the life out of Tendo Choi, when he wouldn’t agree to talk the previous Marshal and his father out of their decision.

The streets of God-knows-where in Hong Kong drifted past his helmet screen, and his motorcycle revved so loudly he spooked nearly everyone in his path, but he couldn’t care any less. The wind pushing him back felt like it was seeping into him and cleansing him.

 _Blowing yourselves up might’ve saved our lives then, but the Kaiju are back, dad._ Chuck hated to think that all of that was for nothing. He hated his father for blowing himself up.

 _Shite, I’m gonna need a shot soon,_ he thought. He didn’t know where he was going -- probably some shady bar with some fairly decent vodka – but it didn’t matter anyway. The shatterdome was so large by the docks he could spot it from the edge of the city. _Though if I’m going to get knackered then it’s going to be a problem._

Fuck everything kept running through his thoughts. He could do whatever he wanted.

He came to a halt next to a bar lit with shifty yellow filters, a rusted up façade, and a neon sign that said something in Chinese. Helmet under his arm, he went in without much aplomb and ordered two shots straight up. He settled onto one of the stools by the bar and looked around, as the bartender poured his shots, thinking of nothing but trivial thoughts. His thought processes paved the way for more sensitive topics later, when the alcohol started fucking up his brain. He was going to hope that the bartender was a sympathetic, listening-sort of person, but then he realized he didn’t give a rat’s arse.

Two shots. The bar was dingy and looked to be either a place where seedy transactions were made or people were brought to be killed. Not a bad place, and not an unfamiliar place. It was just the right atmosphere for Chuck. And hey, the bar area smelled faintly of vomit. That should certainly aid him later, should he decide to be finally rid of the place. His tongue welcomed the burn, slithering all the way down his throat to his stomach, where the sickening sensation turned warm.

He signaled to the bartender, and two shotglasses were refilled. He closed his eyes. The wafting scent of vodka from his lips went directly to his brain, was welcomed and given refreshments. Two shots. He winced. For all the shittiness of the bar he had chosen, and the absence of patrons, the stuff was good. Rasping. It felt like the liquid version of sexual foreplay.

He paused, and tried to see through his eyelids. Not images of anything, but rather pieces of something in him with which he could sort out where he was coming from.

All he could see was Becket. _The fuck?_ Why was he thinking of that sordid loser at a time like this? He shook his head, asked for another and downed the shot just as the nozzle was back up from pouring.

The has-been’s probably chatting Mori up right at this moment, exchanging words that Chuck couldn’t begin to fathom, especially in his current state. Would Becket be complaining? Would he shun the very thought of piloting with him, drifting with him, just overall working with him, because he doesn’t like him? Would Mori stare him down as well, tell him that it was for the cause, remind him of his brother, just as she reminded Chuck of his father?

Two shots, straight up. If he could fit two shotglasses along his lips, he most definitely would.

Or would they be exchanging something else, other than words and debate? Chuck cursed under his breath, giggling drunkenly despite himself. _Get your fucking mind out of the gutter._

He would know if there was something between those two. Chuck wouldn’t give a shit, but he would know. Becket would be too obvious about it, and Mori wouldn’t be so uptight all the time. Though truth be told, there was something very odd and wrong about the idea, sitting on its haunches in his very core, but he couldn’t quite pinpoint it … 

But, no. Stop. Becket …. He didn’t think he had any right to call Raleigh Becket a has-been anymore. He supposedly saved the Earth with Mako Mori. He’s been training. He’s lauded and loved by everyone. If anything, he was the has-been. Chuck Hansen. No world record could save him now – he’s alienated everyone, just by being himself.

Becket – he probably hates Chuck right now. _Why the fuck do I have to be so goddamn abrasive?_ It was one of those questions that lingered at the back of his mind whenever he bad-mouthed someone, which was, to say, almost all the time. It was always there. Why was he always so angry?

He’d know, he thought, after a few more shots, but likely he’ll forget the morning after. He would never reach clarity, trying to grasp at it by the very tendrils on his own, and with vodka to boot.

A shot, then another reluctant one after, making him cough. It hurt, suddenly, as it went down in a particularly scalding way. He would know a lot about pain, though he was always careful not to show it explicitly.

“A whiskey, please,” said a surprising voice of a woman beside him. Chuck turned and glanced at her. Platinum blonde hair framed her face, a harsh, long face that had a positively somber look. She glanced back at him and sighed.

“You are red in the face, Chuck Hansen. And you’ve finished a bottle on your own,” she said to him. Chuck knitted his eyebrows, looking towards the work station, finding that, he had indeed, finished a bottle. Wasn’t that dangerous? His mind was abuzz, each breath pumping both life and death into his brain. Oxygen, alcohol.

“What’s it to you, sh-sheila? I’ve got great tolerance …” he slurred. Fuck, he was slurring. His mind, the sane, uncompromised part of his mind, was seeing himself from a third plane. He looked and acted like shit, but he had no control of his body. The woman … she looked very familiar, and her little quirks, or lack of them, reminded him of someone. 

“You’re trying to drown yourself, then? In what, I wonder? Anger, disappointment, grief?” she said, sipping at her brown glass.

“Stop talking a load of bull,” he tossed over his shoulder. “You don’t know me.”

“But I do,” she said. “You have no control over your mind. No grasp of how to sort your thoughts. Among the elites, I knew you to be the one with an unstable neural handshake. Your father kept you aloft in Striker Eureka.”

He faced her with a scathing expression. “What would you know about my father?”

“He was a great man, and a sore loss. He thought me everything I know, along with my parents. Why he did not do the same to you, I can barely fathom. If anything, he was holding you back from growth by keeping you reined in.”

Chuck stood and kicked his stool back, but then swayed in place. His head was swimming. No, a bottle of vodka was not prudent to down all at once.

He pointed a shaky finger at her. “You. Know nothing. NOTHING. I knew you looked … looked familiar, you’re … you’re a Kaidonovsky, aren’t you?” He wobbled, and hit the counter, his side aching painfully from the impact. He was making an arse out of himself, and his vision was doubling, floating over a film-like strip. He shook his head, and shook his head …

Raleigh

“Oh, mercy. You’re here,” Hermann Gottlieb said to Raleigh in relief as he entered the labs. Raleigh quirked an eyebrow. It was late, and he didn’t expect anyone to be there, but he was looking for Newt nonetheless, to get some answers out of him. It seemed the tattooed scientist was looking preoccupied, and Raleigh stood there, trying to figure out what to say.

“What’s going on?” Raleigh asked Hermann, who was glancing at Newt apprehensively. The man looked more like a boy, nearly straddling a work table where he was furiously drawing something.

“The German, he entered the laboratories and started a frenzy – it’s like he’s been holding it all in until he got here –started talking incoherently and bustling around for ‘materials’, he calls it. Suffice to say he’s excited that he’s going to be a pilot,” Hermann answered exasperatedly.

Raleigh snorted, making his way over to Newt. “Newt, what in God’s name are you doing?”

Newt threw him a one-second cursory glance, didn’t respond, continued drawing, and then stared at him full-on, before throwing his hands around Raleigh’s neck.

“HOLY CRAP Raleigh I’m going to be a pilot!” he screamed, before realizing that what he was doing was in fact, socially unacceptable. He pushed himself from Raleigh, who looked too stunned and a little too amused to react.

“Right, yes, well,” Newt muttered, straightening his shirt and tie. “A pilot. Hurray?” he said meekly. Raleigh laughed at him.

“If it’s all the same to you, being a scientist is pretty ‘hurray’, too,” Raleigh said, shaking his head. Hermann seconded that with a grunt of approval and a look of gratitude as he returned to working with the computers. “Though I have to admit,” Raleigh said, “it was pretty surprising. What are you gonna do at Kwoon?”

“I have no idea, I’m gonna die,” he said in one breath, looking at his work. Raleigh glanced at it – it was Newt inside a Jaeger’s control brig, drawn with unexpected depth and artistry.

“Holy Newton Geiszler, you did this?” Raleigh told him, amazed with the work.

“I had to,” Newton said proudly. “I couldn’t get it out of my head. And if I couldn’t get it out of my head I’d be thinking of nothing else all day. Oh man, I don’t think I’d be sleeping tonight with all the thoughts. Jaeger, Ranger, fighting Kaijus, my God.”

“Hey, don’t cream your pants about it,” Raleigh grinned at him, but then he remembered what he was here for and his toned down into a reluctant smile. “Listen, about SEMCA, I actually wanted to ask you about something …”

“What would that be, then, Raleigh?” Newt said after a brief pause, as he busily scratched a few more details onto his work.

“I was thinking – well, was wondering, how Hansen … Chuck and I could have that kind of compatibility. I mean –“he snorted, “—137% is just ridiculous. I didn’t even think it was possible for something like that to happen, I …” he hesitated, blinking at the ground.

“About that …” Newton said, sobering up and leaning against the work table to face him. “It’s a rather strange anomaly. But the algorithm isn’t wrong, you are in fact _that_ compatible, it’s …” Newt stepped back, and thought. “I have this theory, about drifting, and neural imprints. I think that that over-exceeding of compatibility has something to do with your minds. I can’t quite put a finger on it, but you two have had previous drift partners who have left significant imprints, and … well, you know what happened to them, I don’t need to remind you, but I did remind you just now, sorry …”

Raleigh shook his head. “It’s fine. But I think I’m starting to understand.” The pain of losing Yancy was nothing but a fleeting ache nowadays, too easy to forget with the hustle and bustle of shatterdome life, but he remembered Yancy constantly, and sometimes it needed him being alone and separate from others for a while to sort himself out again.

“We at the lab are actually hoping that the two of you would shed light on the matter soon,” Hermann said from behind them. “We’ve made a revolutionary breakthrough in making drift simulations more realistic. We’re testing them out within the week, I think. And no, with your temperaments, I don’t think you will be in any Jaeger soon.”

Raleigh nodded quietly. They wouldn’t want a repeat of the Mori Pulse Launcher incident soon.

He left the lab with rather conflicting thoughts, most of them centering on Chuck Hansen. On one side, he felt unnerved – Chuck Hansen was a hotshot flyboy who constantly lashed out at everyone, a warrior whose sole purpose was to kill Kaiju, or so everyone thought. But on the other, Raleigh was not against their partnership. Sure, they almost always came at odds, and Chuck never seemed to be in a cooperative mood, but Raleigh … he always couldn’t help but glance at the man during meals, sitting alone with his dog. The picture didn’t seem right. Herc Hansen would always be sitting across Chuck, but then he wasn’t anymore, and Chuck always had this unresponsive, dead look to him, this methodic behavior to eating.

Raleigh knew more about dying loved ones than most of the people in the dome, and was probably the only other person, besides Chuck, who was so close to the person that they shared every thought they had together, literally, through the neural bond.

It was an odd sort of thing to have in common, and for some reason, Raleigh found a strange purpose in partnering with Chuck. He didn’t know what it was, but it certainly piqued his interest enough that he was open to trying training with the Australian.

When he made it back to the trainee rooms, he was surprised to find someone standing by his door, knocking. Upon closer inspection, Raleigh saw that she was holding a barely conscious Chuck Hansen up on his toes.

“For the love of God, Becket, answer this door!” she said, knocking more insistently. How a girl with such a slender frame could hold up someone as bulky as Hansen, Raleigh didn’t know.

“I’m out here,” he said, making himself noticeable. Her gaze snapped towards him, clearly irritated. Before he knew it, Chuck Hansen was being dragged towards him, and dumped on his chest. Raleigh made a sound of protest as Chuck’s arms shot around his neck for support. Raleigh cringed at the stink of alcohol emanating from Chuck.

“He’s yours, now,” the woman said, straightening her clothing and stomping off. Raleigh looked after her with confusion and indignation.

“Yrrt, fngg wm,” Chuck said against his chest, and Raleigh had to strain his ears to listen.

“What?” he said, trying to maneuver Chuck into a more comfortable standing position. No luck. The man was heavy – how the hell did that woman drag Chuck all the way to their rooms? Chuck looked up at his face, and their eyes met. Chuck's eyes were unfocused, red-rimmed -- he looked like he had just finished crying. Raleigh's eyes widened in shock.

“S, said yer too fuckin’ warm,” Chuck slurred. “Getoff me …” he said, pushing at Raleigh. He still had his hands on Chuck’s arms for support, but he kept batting them away.

Before Raleigh knew it, Chuck was wrestling with his shirt, almost hitting the far wall in the process. Raleigh didn’t know whether to be pleased or horrified.

“Too hot,” Chuck said, his bare chest heaving. He was clutching at his shirt with one hand, his other cradling his head as he leaned on his door precariously. Raleigh stared at the expanse of Chuck’s back for a second, before recollecting his thoughts.

“Chuck, what’s your password?” Raleigh said to him, walking over and trying to peek at Chuck’s face from below.

“I … what? … Can’t … four, something … can’t remember …” Chuck muttered. Raleigh stood there for a second, unable to say anything, as Chuck fell into a doze while standing up.

“Right. No entering your room, then,” Raleigh sighed. He half-dragged, half-carried the unconscious Australian towards his door and inputted his password, unlocking the hinges. He pushed himself in along with the other man, and carefully maneuvered them towards the bed, which thankfully, he had made that morning. He forgot, however, to throw his dirty sweater into the hamper that morning, leaving it on the floor, where his foot caught it.

He toppled onto the bed with a yelp, hitting his head on the bed frame. The Australian fell on him, and consciousness left him instantly.


	5. The Lies and Truths of Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'ed. Sorry, people. I try my best.

Chuck

Images shifted. They always did, and Chuck was always aware of them. Aware of the shadows lurking beyond and behind and beside him when he slept, relentless in their pursuit of his inner ruin. He had learned how to deal with them from an early age. _It’s no different from when mom died._ No different, but painfully the same.

It was always within the confines of Striker Eureka, or some other scene where the Jaeger was in view. That night, Chuck was in the rain, on Striker’s shoulder, staring at Leatherback in the face. Hong Kong glowed in the distance, a bustling city soon to be ravaged by another Kaiju. Chuck only had one thing in mind. _Distract the goddamn beast._ The flare gun was cold in his hand. His father was beside him, quiet, waiting for his son to make a move. The rain poured endlessly. They both fired at the creature. 

This was where the scene usually took a turn for the worse. Leatherback would go berserk. The Kaiju would lash out, scream at them, smack the side of Striker Eureka with its tail a second time, and send them both flying towards the turbulent sea. He would swim for his father, keep on swimming, kicking and stroking with all his might and power, but he wouldn’t reach him. He’d be drifting down into the sea, rolling in the deep, where his remains were sleeping with the fish. Chuck would be reaching down, and salt would fill his lungs.

Instead, the scene played out just as it had in real life. Airlifted by the copters was Gypsy Danger, smashing fist-first onto Leatherback. The Kaiju fell hard. The only difference was that Chuck didn’t cheer for the Jaeger’s pilots. Instead, his arm, his one useful arm, shot towards his dad to grip at his shoulder firmly. And he looked at Herc, and relief flooded through him like a wave. _Not this time. He’s alive. He’s alive._

He’s alive.

Chuck woke.

He was lying on a contoured surface – a warm, firm surface that, despite its uncanny characteristics, managed to cushion his frame almost comfortably.

He had never woken up warm before. He decided that it was … not uncomfortable.

His head was throbbing painfully, and his nose picked up remnants of the previous night, a reminder of why exactly his head was just that. He cringed as the thought of it made his brain ache further. _No, don’t think_. He buried his nose under the crook of his pseudo-pillow, stubbornly willing the pain to go away. _Go to sleep. Go back to sleep._

It was the first time in months since he’d said that to himself, which should be surprising. Somehow, in some way, he had made it through the night. He couldn’t remember the last time he had slept as fitfully as this time. It was strange and suspicious, but it was also not unwelcome. That it had come after a horrible night of tipping glasses was bittersweet, but the thrum in his head could have been worse. And he could have been dead in some alley somewhere from an alcohol-induced accident. He could live with this. 

In his face’s new position, he caught scent of something different, wafting pleasantly, a heady tone of something … mixed with something crisp like remnants of cologne or, or aftershave … it smelled nice …

He cracked his eyes open and saw an open expanse of neck. He looked up. _Raleigh Becket’s neck_.

He scrambled away as if Becket’s body had caught fire, fighting the stabbing chills that went through his body. He fell from the bed in a heap. _Jesus fucking Christ how did I end up here?_

The blood that rushed to his face pulsated madly, bringing him another tide of joyous brain pain, and he was breathing harshly, staring at Raleigh’s bed. At the man’s unconscious form. _Why the fuck hasn’t he woken up yet? I practically kicked myself away from him._

His eyes went from the man to his own bare stomach. _And why the fuck am I naked?_

So many questions, so many fucks that the word itself already lost its meaning.

Chuck tentatively crawled towards the bed, sitting on his feet and trying to figure out how to wake Becket up. In actuality, he wasn’t even supposed to consider Becket’s feelings on how he was to be woken up – Chuck could take a dump on his forehead and that would do the trick. He didn’t know why he was staring hard at Becket’s solemn face, his still, clean-shaven face, contemplating on how to wake him up, and for all intents and purposes, considering Becket. And his feelings. Which he was wont to do on a normal day-to-day basis.

Looking around, he saw that it wasn’t his room, most likely Becket’s. Things were haphazardly strewn around, and anything personal was kept to a bare minimum. A stack of photos. Some books, or rather a surprising number of odd novels of different shapes and sizes. _Heh, who knew the guy could read?_

There was no water around with which he could douse Becket’s unconsciousness with. And Becket would probably throw a fit if he smacked him awake with a paperback. He decided that a few careful slaps would do.

“Hey. Wake up,” he grunted, clapping at Becket’s cheeks. “Wake up, turd. It’s morning.”

No response. He slapped with more force. “Hey, Becket. For fuck’s sake, wake up. You’re not the one with a hangover.”

He pulled at Becket’s ear. Tugged at some of the longer hairs along his sideburns. He flicked Becket’s straight nose, hard.

“Fucking …” he was getting angry. This was too taxing, and it was pissing off that he was getting tired of the day so early in it. Why doesn’t he just punch the man’s gut and be done with things?

“WAKE UP,” he yelled, forgetting to hold his palm back as it slapped Becket’s face with enough force to make the man’s head swivel. The blond cringed in his sleep, and his eyes blinked in rapid succession, clear blue eyes unfocused as consciousness seeped back into them.

“Unggh, what the … hell …” Becket said, shaking his head carefully. He nursed the back of his head with one hand as the other helped him into a semi-sitting position.

“What is wrong with you?” Chuck huffed in an aggravated manner.

He could tell by the way Becket was squinting over and over that his vision was swimming. “My head … it hurts …” He let his head fall back onto his pillow, groaning. “How’d you get into my room?”

Chuck leaned back, looking affronted. _What happened? Why is he acting like a dumb jerk?_ “You moron. You steal me off into your room while I was _drunk_ , and then use me as a fucking blanket, and you don’t even have the bloody decency to remember any of it?”

“… what?” Becket said dumbly, staring hard at Chuck. It was then that the Australian noticed the tiny amount of blood staining Becket’s pillow. Chuck’s eyes drew together.

“Becket, turn your head for a second,” he ordered as he hovered over Becket’s form. The American was in a compliant mood, breathing slowly as he faced the wall where his bed was pushed against. Chuck’s anger rose when his eyes roved a second too long over the same expanse of neck, but then he spotted the dried, matted hair at the back of Becket’s head and he raised his eyebrows.

“Where the bloody hell did you hit yourself?” Chuck asked in surprise. “You have a head wound under all that hair.”

Becket gave an awkward sort of shrug, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion. One blue iris peeked at him in askance, and Chuck realized his hand had shot up to inspect Becket’s hair some more. He quickly put it away, the back of his mind noting—in a multitude of voices of his different states of emotion about the matter—how Becket’s hair was downy and thick.

“I must have … I must have …” and then Becket groaned in pain again, which spiked some idiotic feeling in Chuck’s gut that felt a lot like pity. Or something else entirely—he wasn’t sure, and he damn well didn’t want to be, with his hangover still in session.

“Christ … Get up, then. I’m taking you to the damn infirmary. Stupid savior of the Pacific can’t even go to sleep without bloody hurting himself … really ridiculous …” Chuck muttered, unconsciously helping the man up into a sitting position. Becket held onto his arm for support as he stood, wobbling on his feet worse than Chuck was. They made the stupidest probable pair at the moment, an idiot with a concussion and a smashed, bloodshot shirtless nobody. He scoffed to himself.

He then realized that he couldn’t damn well stroll across the bays without a shirt on.

“Hold on a sec—just try not to get another bump in the head …” he said absent-mindedly, looking for his shirt around the room. Becket was blinking at the ground and trying very hard to stay on his feet, and Chuck kept one eye on him as he searched. He found the piece of clothing, but the smell of alcohol on it repulsed him so much that he could feel himself almost throwing up yesterday’s lunch. He gagged, feeling suddenly woozy. His shirt was across the room a second later, and he stopped breathing to recompose himself.

“Forget it, let’s just go,” he said after a while, turning to Becket, who had wobbled over to his closet. Chuck nearly didn’t catch him when he almost fell on his face, but he did, and was met with a chest-full of Raleigh Becket’s face.

“I told you to stay put,” Chuck said irritably, unable to put any real vehemence into his words. His eyebrows furrowed again, unable to comprehend his sudden shot of agreeability, when Becket slung something over his shoulder.

“Wear this … or you’ll freak out the new recruits,” he muttered. Chuck eyes widened in surprise when he found it was a shirt, a slate grey t-shirt made out of cotton. Chuck made an incomprehensible but definitely rude noise, steadying Becket after pushing the American off him (gently), and then shrugging the shirt on. He had to raise an eyebrow at Becket when the shirt fit him perfectly.

“It’s Yancy’s … sure he won’t mind … so, infirmary, you were saying?” Becket mumbled. Chuck noted with sudden alarm that Becket really wasn’t looking in tip-top shape, so he sidled next to the man for support and walked out of the room, nearly choked with silence, but also perplexed as to why he was.

Raleigh

The first question that came out of his mouth when he came to and realized that someone else was in the room was, ‘What time is it?’ Appropriate, since he remembered where he was and how he got there. His second question, a somewhat more pressing one was, ‘Where’s Chuck?’, but for some reason, he held his tongue back and waited for a response to the previous question.

The nurse told him it was almost seven in the evening. The thought that he had spent nearly twelve hours in bed was appalling, being an overactive busybody he was, and the realization almost made him shoot from his bed onto his feet. But just the idea of it made his head fizz in disagreement, and he forced himself to relax, and stay put. _It’s probably for your own good. You bumped your head, after all._

He remembered how the doctor told him it was a mild case of head trauma, and that it was a small wound to the back of the head. The resulting concussion would wear off, and the wound itself was nothing to worry about since head injuries tend to bleed a lot. Becket took it all in a blurry haze, dimly aware of the solid, warm arm supporting him as he stood from the scanning machine towards a wheelchair. The doctor insisted that he be confined for observation, and administered a drug for his concussion, which had a side-effect of also being soporific. So he had slept through the morning and afternoon, effectively disrupting his sleep cycle.

The idea put him off. But more importantly, he was concerned with how the first rounds of training went, in particular, with how Chuck dealt with his absence and how Newt managed to survive.

“Mr Becket, Marshal Mori is here to see you,” the nurse told him, and Raleigh was pulled out of his reverie as she stepped aside. Mako entered the room slowly, as if uncertain that Raleigh was really up for a visit.

“Mako,” Raleigh breathed, sitting up to look less pathetic than he did lying down. He blinked a few times, to get rid of the last vestiges of vertigo, before staring at her.

“I take it you’re alright,” she said, raising an eyebrow as she scanned the clipboard at the end of his bed. Raleigh’s lips pursed. “For a moment I thought Chuck did away with you in your sleep. Then I’m surprised to find that he brought you here himself, current animosity notwithstanding.”

Raleigh nodded reluctantly. “I’m … grateful, I guess. Though taken aback. I didn’t expect the man to have a heart.”

“No one did. You were quite the hot topic today,” she said with a glint in her eye. “It went something like a man labeled as a volatile maniac dragging a half-conscious hero into the doctor’s.”

Raleigh closed his eyes and groaned. “The dome’s having a field day, then? Christ, without the Kaiju around, people are getting desperate.”

“I heard Chuck had to swear on multiple occasions that he didn’t shove you into things,” Mako said in amusement. “I heard he was just as surprised to find you concussed, in your room. Now, why was he in your room, Raleigh?”

“You heard a lot of things,” Raleigh said exasperatedly. “And you’re jumping to conclusions. A lot of them. Just because we drifted a few ways back doesn’t mean you know me. You might _know_ , and try to make a _guess_ , but it’s not like that, and you’re wrong.”

Mako laughed to herself. “You’re being awfully defensive, Raleigh. I was only asking.”

“If you must know, a woman with silver hair brought him to my door, piss-drunk. He was too inebriated to tell me his passcode, so I brought him to my room. Then, I slipped.”

He didn’t think it was necessary to tell Mako that they slept in a very unintentionally intimate position the night before, drunk as though Chuck was and he concussed, but it was there in his head, being tossed and turned over. _Why …?_ He couldn’t complete the questions, but his head was chock full of them, threatening to overwhelm him.

“What happened to training?” Raleigh asked, to skirt over the perplexing topic of the younger Hansen.

Mako put his clipboard back on its hook and smiled. “It went smoothly. The new elite trainees were at Kwoon today, testing out their newly found drift compatibility through sparring. As expected, the partners were evenly matched. Newton was a surprise—though Tiago’s skills in modern _Arnis_ were astonishing, Newt, apparently, knew a strange variant of _Kali_. Tiago didn’t know what hit him—the two martial arts were one and the same in the Philippines, though Newt’s form was bastardized. Suffice to say Tiago was impressed, and a little bit too eager to learn from Newt. I don’t think Chuck’s ever gonna look at him the same way again, with his newly discovered moves.”

Raleigh knew that interest left him when Chuck’s name was mentioned, though he still wished he could’ve been there, to cheer Newt on. Instead, his train of thought went to the Australian, unbidden.

“And what did the great jerk do today?” Raleigh asked. In his head he thought it was a reasonable segway, though it still irked him that it sounded as if he was the one to bring the Australian up and not Mako.

“He sulked around, mostly. The same old Chuck Hansen we see around,” she replied, watching him. “Though I’m pretty sure he was grumpy because he didn’t get to tussle with you in the combat room.”

“What a pity, then,” Raleigh said, staring back at her defiantly. He knew her train of thought. He knew what she was inferring. There was a mischievous side to her, he intrinsically knew, based on their drifts, a little sprouting need to cause trouble once in a while, to break up the monotonous pace of being scheduled and organized. She was currently imposing that side of her on them, he reckoned.

“A pity indeed,” she agreed, nodding in what was supposed to be disappointment. Raleigh knew it for what it was. “Though, there was that one thing. We didn’t expect any change in SEMCA today, except maybe a few units up towards further compatibility for the trainees, but astoundingly so, yours and Chuck’s Compatibility Quotient rose six percent today, in conjunction with everyone else’s rise of about two or three.”

At this, Raleigh’s expression changed to that of shock. “It baffled the scientists, especially Hermann, and he wanted to claim Chuck for tests today, drag him to the labs and do some trials using his new brain equipment, but the man was too hot-blooded to comply.”

Raleigh could tell that Mako was looking to him for answers, her eyes regarding him in the space of silence that followed. Though he had no definite answers of his own, it was quite clear that SEMCA and the training program would most definitely change his and Chuck’s relationship dynamic. What bothered him the most was the unpredictability of that change, and his own sentiments regarding the man himself. What was changing? And why did it suddenly bother him so much that he needed to know?

That night, asleep for the last time in the infirmary wing, Raleigh dreamed of Gypsy Danger, and what it would be like if Yancy piloted it with Chuck. The images were washed out and all kinds of grainy and undefined, the scenes constantly changing, but one thing he couldn’t mistake was the ghost of a smile on Yancy, mirrored by the same contented mirth on the Australian’s face.


End file.
